Survival
by Keela Adoette
Summary: It's Harry James Potter's seventeenth birthday, and he's come into his Inheritance. It's terrifying, otherworldly, and far too exhilarating for a mere "mortal" such as he ... (One-shot.)


**Survive**

**...**

**..**

**.**

The first time Harry realised that he was no longer a child, he was four years old and nursing his injuries from his first beating, thanks to Uncle Vernon.

He was sixteen now, and in a mere three minutes the clock would mark midnight; his seventeenth birthday. It was supposed to be a time of joy; happiness. Of contentment and hope for the future - powers hidden come to light, the start of wizarding adulthood; the ability to use magic whenever he pleased.

He only felt empty now, as he realised he had no family (or one that would care for him, and he them), no one in this cold, white-walled room of his to share his Inheritance (should he even have one; it wasn't a given, though Merlin knew what was special in him, the supposed "Boy-Who-Lived".) The chances of his coming into power were unlikely, given the odds; yet he, in being Harry Potter, defied all odds.

Just a boy. An average, scared little boy …

He checked Dudley's old watch again, a large crack shattering the beautiful face of it. Dimly, it read: _11:59. _

He wondered if it would even make a difference. _After all, _he mused, _I'm just one person. If the whole Order failed - the entire wizarding world! - what could I do? _What could I possibly do?_ Fail. Only fail, and let innocents die in the name of "glory", of retribution, vengeance and belief. False belief. _

Harry shifted uncomfortably on his thin mattress. Gave a sigh, a glare into the pitch black.

He hated Dumbledore. He'd never tell, of course - imagine the outcry - but the man was … manipulative. Harry preferred the enemy that he could see; could tell. _Know. _Not this … this _act _that the Headmaster gave off. This grandfatherly pretence. And, oh, how the "My boy" saying grated on his nerves.

_My boy,_ as if he was a possession; a trophy to keep. As if he _owed _the man! Anything! He'd taken his parents (yes, he had; the reign of Voldemort began with a young Tom Riddle, ignored as Harry was, ignored and left to rot - _rot as vermin_ - by him! He, the supposed Leader of the Light); he'd left him to the Dursleys - and - and - _Oh, god, _if that didn't hurt as a Crucio a thousand times over -

Here. _Right here, _in a place he was not wanted, not seen, did not belong - _wouldn't want to belong! Not in this "normalcy" …_

He. Did. Not. Owe. Dumbledore. Anything!

_12:00._

It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. It was just he, Voldemort, and the end in sight. Just the clock, ticking down, _tick-tock, tick-tock …_

And then the pain began. A fire in his soul, an icy current in his veins, flashing hot, _burning _-

It was electricity coursing through him, hair standing on end. It was drowning, the panic consuming, the water filling his lungs, _dragging at him with grasping, pale claws, _and no-one was here to save him, no-one saved the Saviour.

_God help me …_

He spasmed. Fell from his bed. Heard, through agony-dulled ears, "Quiet, boy!"

Prayed.

Stop. Please stop. Stop hurting.

Groaned as his back arched, as his hands dug into his skin - or was it the floor? He couldn't tell. Couldn't breathe. See. Feel anything but the darkness sliding over him, infiltrating him; sucking him in, shred by terrifying shred. Eating him, tendon by tendon, fission by fission.

Jaws. Clamping. Harry dug his nails into his sweaty palms. Gave a muffled scream, pressed into the ground. The dirt. Dirt like him, like dust in the wind, torn away as leaves to the sea, as life to the hungry volcano; red, fiery, unstoppable.

"Boy, I'm warning you! God help me, one more sound - " Vernon thundered. Thundered, as lightning amongst clouds. _Snap. Crash. Boom. _Yes. As lightning to the helpless, the creatures - tearing. Striking. Destroying.

Yes. _God help me, _he'd said. _Help me. God help me. _

Harry's eyes shot open, revealing dilated pupils, blood-shot scleras. Black, black lashes. Ebony like the abyss …

Watered eyes. As the _sea _in his _lungs -_

Liquid in his lungs, sun in his throat. It was sand, slashing across his throat. _Scraaaaaaping. _He swallowed his tears. His blood? Blood of electricity. _Zip-zap. Snap dash. Crash boom. _

A bubble of hysterical laughter choked its way out of his throat, his rose-stained teeth. Was this how he was to die? On the floor of Dudley's ex-toy-room, surrounded by … _nothing? _By the hate of his relatives, the weight of the future settled heavy across his thin, bruised shoulders?

_At least, _he managed a grin, _at least Dumbledore won't get his way. _

A wave of agony crested and fell upon him, leaving him writhing and twisting on the floor. Harry growled, snarled, snapped - _roared, _a distorted cry of pain, rage and regret. Despair. Not like this … not in the dirt, with nothing. With no-one to smile down at him through a tear-streaked face - wanting him! Him! - and whisper softly, "It's okay. I love you, Harry James Potter. Do you hear me? _I love you!_" To shake him, to hug him. Embrace him … one last time … the first time.

Not. Like. This.

He clenched his teeth. He would be strong. He'd _always been _strong. He'd survived! Survived the Dursleys, the public, Voldemort. Survived betrayal, loss, hate, revenge. Survived it all! _The whole goddamn world he'd survived, _and he'd not give up now. The muscles in his jaw pulled taut. Iron flowed through his veins, and with an animalistic instinct he poured his strength, _his very magic _(soul!) into his form. Imagined that mass of black that even now he felt grinding against his bones. Saw it. Saw the joy it had as it ate, ate, ate. As is _changed him -_

It had one thought, one thought alone: _survive. _

Yes. Survive. This mass … was changing him. For the better? Maybe. But it was killing him too, pulling too much, taking too much, _more than he had. _

_It had to stop, _he knew. So he pulled himself from the floor - peeled, truly - and steadied himself on trembling arms. Closed his eyes and gave into the darkness.

_Oh, god, _it was beautiful … and so utterly, indescribably _powerful. _How had he never seen it before? How could anyone not see the glory of it?

It paused; pivoted. Eyed him. Judged him, he knew, though not how. There was a _whoosh, _the huffing of its very mass. _Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump. _

That self-same animal instinct rose up within him once more, gnawing and straining. _Quick! _it yelled. _Quick!_

Harry pulled in a breath, felt his heart stop. He grabbed his magic, the last of it (of everything he had left) and offered it. (_What was he doing? No!_ a part of him yelled, but it was ignored in favour of self-preservation.) Offered it to the fire, the water, the electricity. Offered it to the very universe.

It shifted with curiosity. Drew in close, and he couldn't help but tremble before the otherworldly beast.

"Yes?" it asked. "You?" it questioned. There were no words, only a presence; a feeling of _knowing. _

_Exhale. _Harry drifted closer. Closer still, until it felt as if the dark encompassed him, as if he himself was a part of it (he! He, Harry, part of its magnificence).

"More?" The space shimmered. "More?" Stars were born, exploding into existence.

"Yes," he promised. "More." He gave in (not _up, _not ever up) and showed it. Showed the Dark his life. All the abuse, the neglect. The false promises and enticing words. The lies, the truth. The small glimpses of happiness. Every harsh word, every rebuffed gesture. He told the Dark, and the Dark listened. Listened to his woes. Watched as Harry failed, as he succeeded. The Stone. Basilisk. Sirius. The Goblet. The Order. The Prince. Dumbledore. Voldemort. Dursleys. Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny … every memory, emotion, thought …

It ended.

Harry waited.

And then the Dark asked, "Sorry? Always?"

Harry paused. The animal within slowed warily. This was dangerous … this question …

Space and time paused, rocked within their very cradles.

It repeated, "Sorry? Wish anew?"

Harry, ever-so-carefully, replied, "Yes." His voice was strong. As strong as he'd always been. _As he'd always secretly been._

"Yes … " the Dark mused. "Sorry is not enough," it said, far more eloquent than it'd appeared to be. Harry quaked; his body went limp in terror. His puppet strings snapped. _Crash, snap, boom, zap. _"_Sorry,_" it hissed, "doesn't change the past, the countless hours wasted. The overwhelming despair of a child within the dark - and not _my _dark, not in the slightest - of a cupboard." It came closer. A tendril of shadow and smoke, of star dust and dark matter gripped Harry's chin. Gently - G_ently! _Harry nearly cried out - it lifted his head.

Gazed deep into his eyes. "Yes," it whispered. "You are broken."

Harry shook his head fiercely in denial. Set his teeth upon the gnawed skin of his lips. "_No."_

The grip tightened dangerously, and the Dark pressed in angrily? sadly? worriedly? "_Yes,_" it enforced. "Do not lie to me," it said, and Harry felt the pulsating threat of it, felt it press against his neck; heard the weak _thump-thump-thumping _of his heart.

He swallowed. "Yes," he rasped, "broken like glass."

There was stillness. "Yet - "

"Yet," Harry agreed, inhaling with relief.

"Your shards are sharp;" - it peered at him - "deadly." It gave a full-throated laugh. "_Gryffindor,_" it howled, "a lion! No, child; a snake in the lion's den."

Harry ripped his chin from the Dark's grip, his eyes carefully observing the tangible mass of space. "I - I - it's - " he stuttered. He felt … stupid. Like a fool. His whole life he'd been an _idiot! _It was all there in front of him, and he'd missed it. Ignored it, perhaps.

The Dark launched itself away from him, clamouring. Twitchily, it jerked. "Again? Again?" it yowled childishly.

Harry stumbled backwards. "What do you mean?"

There were teeth. Long, glowing incisors flashing in a predatory grin. "Oh, you know," it simpered hypnotically. With great amusement, it tutted. "I told _you _… " it said, "don't _lie to me._"

He clenched his fists, anger pounding through him. _Enough! No more of this! _he shouted silently. "_No!"_ he screamed, rushing forwards into the all-consuming black. "I DON'T KNOW! I. Don't. _Know!" _his voice echoed evermore - '_don't-know-don't-know!'_

There was deafening silence. It weighed upon him, louder than any shriek. Chuckles, slow and quiet at first, grew louder. "Yes … " the Dark smiled, "not broken."

Harry breathed heavily. Licking his lips nervously, the adrenaline fleeing, he asked once more, "What did you mean?"

"To go back," it sang, "to the beginning. Where it all began. When the clock struck midnight on your eleventh birthday."

Harry opened his mouth. Shock coursed through him, and he asked _Can you do that? _At least, he meant to. Instead, what came out was, "Who are you?"

The Dark grew and shuddered. "My darling child," it laughed, "I am your Inheritance."

He gaped wordlessly. (_Stupidly, _sneered his mind.) "What - no - but - _what?_"

"Only for you," it assured him. "From the very beginning, the Fates decided that _I _was to be your Inheritance. In the future the universe will know your claim … but time does not exist here, in the in-between, and so I say; you, child, are mine, and I yours."

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Hear. Taste. Feel. "You never said," he struggled, "who you are."

The Dark thrummed thoughtfully. "Who am I?" it mused. "I am your power. Your birthright. Your second chance. That is all you need to know." It turned away from him, and he felt it carefully pulling each tendril of Darkness from his body, his soul, spirit, mind, magic. Felt it as it readied to leave.

"Wait!" Harry called after it desperately. "Please! I - thank you - _thank you!" _

It paused, and tilted its head, and so quietly that not even Harry heard, murmured, "You are welcome, my Master … "

And so Death left, the dust of stars swirling in its wake, clouding Harry James Potter over, hiding his lost expression.

.

.

.

An indefinable time later, a small, knobbly-kneed, black-haired boy with bright emerald eyes snapped awake, blearily taking in a messily-drawn birthday cake, outlined in dust. He checked Dudley's watch, read _12:01, _and patted down his malnourished body. His eleven-year-old body.

Yes. Again. He'd show them … show them all the sharp shard of glass that they'd made him.

_Again. _He smiled, smiled so wide his cheeks ached. _A chance to make it worth it._

He inhaled.

Exhaled.

And let childish glee take over. Let the thought thrum: not survive. _Live. _

"_BOOM!" _The door to the shack on the rock shook. Hagrid was here. _"BOOM!" _It crashed down, sending splinters flying. The wind rushed in, scattered the dust. _Freed it._

_It begins again._

* * *

><p>"If you want to write a negative review, don't tickle me gently with your aesthetic displeasure about my work. Unleash the goddamn Kraken." - Scott Lynch<p> 


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